Bored Now
by Hello warlock
Summary: Merlin and the Holmes brothers team up to solve a very unusual murder...what could go wrong? Includes Otterlock, John's brief demise, and possibly the end of the world as we know it. Rated T for some brief violence and language. Set in modern day.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello everyone! This is my first fanfiction, so I would absolutely love reviews_

 _P.S. In case you were wondering, the title_ _ **is**_ _a Buffy reference-I'm taking the concept that nothing good ever happens when someone (Yep, talking to you, Willow) says that…._

Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes was fond of saying that his big brother Mycroft "was the British Government."

In one sense he was quite correct; Mycroft was indeed the government. But not the government that concerned itself with corgis and queens, the Royal Family, the Prime Minister, and the Houses of Parliament.

Mycroft Holmes was the Other Government.

The one that merely mentioning made high-ranking state officials get shifty eyes. That is, the ones that believed in such a thing as the Other Government at all.

Mycroft's Government concerned itself with things that were completely, utterly, _terrifyingly_ unexplainable by any and all modern standards. But mostly, it had spent the better part of a thousand years watching with unceasing paranoia the activities of one Merlin Emrys.

Chapter Two

The aforementioned Merlin Emrys, Dragonlord, Warlock, the avatar of magic itself, was bored. Absolutely. Undeniably. Bored.

This was rarely a good thing. When Merlin was bored, wars tended to start, empires were prone to collapse, and things like the invention of modern heavy metal music happened by accident.

The thing was, when Merlin got bored, he got involved. And he'd discovered pretty soon on in his considerably long immortal life, that on the large scale, humanity was better off being left alone. He had a lot of deep philosophical reasons for his inaction, among them the nature of free will and the burden of being a creature separated from the flow of time, but in the end, it came down to one simple principle:

When Merlin played puppet master, people died. A lot of people.

But then, he got bored.

Which was why, against his better judgment, he was lounged back in a large square leather armchair in a small tastefully decorated beige room without windows, flipping idly through a magazine while he waited to see Mycroft Holmes.

He glanced up briefly when a tall thin man with a mop of unruly dark hair and his coat collar turned up sat down in the chair opposite him.

Merlin smiled slightly. He recognized Sherlock Holmes; the Hat Man had achieved a fair amount of fame and Merlin liked to keep up with the news. He wondered sometimes if the detective knew the full extent of Mycroft's duties as the head of the Other Government, in particular the ones involving magic.

He rather fancied not. Which was why it was interesting that Mycroft had obviously sent for Sherlock to deduce what he could about the warlock.

Merlin paged through the magazine again, mentally amusing himself with his favorite game, one he called "What would they be?" In short, he would consider random people, and assign them the roles they would have if they were born in another time. She would be a great sorceress. He would be a noble king.

Sherlock, however, he thought, would never be something other than what he was now: a detective and a scientist, a seeker of objective truth and facts. Just as Mycroft would never be anything else than what he was presently: a manipulator, a puller of strings behind the scenes.

Merlin could practically feel Sherlock's eyes trying to pull facts, deductions, from obscure places like the elbows of Merlin's jacket and the knees of his jeans. He smiled again softly.

After a few minutes, Sherlock rose abruptly and exited the room at the opposite side he had come in, presumably entering Mycroft's office.

Chapter Three

"What the _hell_ , Mycroft," Sherlock snarled as he stalked into his brother's office banging the door behind him. "You promised me a totally unique specimen! 'A once in a lifetime opportunity' you said. There is nothing at all special about that young man. Nothing. At. All. You pulled me away from my _murder_ for THIS-this-mediocrity?"

Mycroft smiled gently. "Now, now, do calm yourself, brother dear. I'm not surprised at all you didn't find Mr. Emrys to be anything out of the ordinary. You might say that blending in is his superpower. But humor me: what exactly did you find?"

Sherlock glared at him and spoke rapidly. "He's deceptively strong, but his pale skin suggests he doesn't work much out of doors. Ambidextrous, but hands don't indicate manual labor. He spends a lot of time online and also reading. Somewhat clumsy, there was a tea stain on his jacket sleeve. He goes walking a lot, walked here as a matter of fact, and doesn't sleep well. I would say highly intelligent, and he also recognized me. So far, so ordinary. You can tell this for yourself perfectly well, _brother dear._ So tell me, why am I really here?"

"Patience. What did you make of his clothes in particular, the color scheme?"

For the first time since entering the office, Sherlock stopped pacing and cocked his head to the side. "Ahhhh yes. The colors. Blue dress shirt, red converse shoes, brown leather jacket. Red is the color of blood and passion, blue the color of the intellect, logic and cunning. The two together create something of a yin-yang between mind and heart: if his wardrobe reflects his psychology I should say that our Mr. Emrys is fundamentally motivated by emotion and idealism, but has the cool head and pragmatism to channel his convictions into direct, although sometimes violent, action. However, the brown of the coat suggests a connection to the earth and grounding-possibly an indication of a moral center. I imagine he is probably a very conflicted individual. Of course," Sherlock paused and said caustically, "he probably just bought what was on sale at the store. Deductions based off color psychology are hazy and hypothetical at best. No more prevarication, Mycroft. Why. Am I. Here?"

Mycroft folded his hands on his desk. "You're going to be working together," he said abruptly. "On the case of the person who was burned at the stake."

"I don't work with people," Sherlock sneered.

"You work with John."

"John is my roommate. And my one and only exception."

Mycroft leaned forward in his chair.

"This is not a discussion, Sherlock. You will work with Merlin Emrys or I will _damn well_ make sure you never touch this case you're working on again."

" _Bloody hell,_ Mycroft! Has your sanity finally collapsed under the combined weight of your minimal social interaction and your gargantuan swelled head?"

"This case you're working on. It presents some-interesting- characteristics, does it not?"

"It's violent, ritualistic, and evidential of a truly disturbed and disturbing mentality. So, yes, it's _interesting_. Why must I share?"

"I know how you like to play with your little murders" Mycroft said in a bored tone. "But this is far, far, bigger than you can possibly imagine. The potential consequences of this murder are cataclysmal, but above all, a crime of this sort _must never happen again._ I don't speak lightly when I say the fate of the nation rests on the killer being caught and punished as quickly as possible."

"People get murdered all the time. Why are you interested?"

Mycroft's eye twitched. "You don't have the security clearance to know yet. Suffice to say there are some factors you are unaware-"

"Unlikely."

"Unaware of," Mycroft finished. "Ergo, you agree to play nice in the sand box with Merlin-who is a specialist in this sort of thing-

"What sort of thing? Murder? He looks like a very unlikely assassin."

"You don't need to know. You will aid him in this case, or have the case removed from you entirely. Your choice."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Three, four, five, seconds passed. Then-

"Fine. But only because you have now made me curious."

Chapter Four

Merlin glanced up from his magazine again when Sherlock exited Mycroft's office and went out the door on the other side of the waiting room. Before the reverberations of the door the detective had slammed behind him had died away, a cool female voice announced over the intercom:

" _Mr. Holmes will see you now."_

Merlin rose, straightened his leather jacket, and took his own sweet time before sauntering over to the office door and gently opening it. From his desk, Mycroft looked up and smiled politely.

"Ah, Merlin. Do sit down."

A slight half smile turned up the side of Merlin's mouth; he leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose fractionally. "I understand you are a very busy man-"

"Not really. I just finished my latest doctorate, and I'm terribly bored, or else I wouldn't be here. You said this was of the gravest importance to the future of Britain. So get on with it."

If Mycroft's eyebrows rose just a little farther, they would vanish into his hairline, but he slid a file across his desk without comment.

Merlin didn't pick it up. Mycroft sighed. "A man has been murdered, Mr. Emrys. Horribly murdered."

"People die all the time, and horrible is such a subjective term. Why should this concern me?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and stared at the warlock. "You know, legends tell of a time when you wouldn't have asked such a question. The fact alone that a man died would have been enough."

Merlin's eyes were a clear, deep and guileless blue, but for a moment there was a gold flicker in their depths of something old, powerful, and very angry.

"It has been a long time since I was a servant and concerned myself overmuch with the fate of others. A very long time."

"The man murdered was a sorcerer."

"So? Users of magic can die."

"There is evidence that he was murdered _because_ he was a sorcerer."

Merlin was silent. Mycroft continued.

"I am sure that I do not need to specify the potential consequences of such an act of hate. The magical and non-magical community has enjoyed a peaceful truce for over seventy years. A truce based on mutual agreement to leave one another _alone._ If some bigot has decided to break that truce and violently attack sorcerers, another war would surely ensue. You above all should understand why this would be…..undesirable. People say that you still wait for Arthur, even after a thousand years. Surely you must want to preserve his kingdom?"

"Don't deign to think you can manipulate me, _Mycroft,_ " Merlin said softly. Mycroft flinched involuntarily; he could swear the temperature in the office had dropped ten degrees.

"My motivations are none of your business," Merlin continued. "However, you make a good point. But, you still haven't said why you need _my_ help."

Mycroft coughed slightly. "Well, this a matter of grave magical importance-"

"The truth."

Mycroft blushed slightly. "My brother is working on this case," he said in his driest and most proper voice. "He doesn't know about magic. Although he doesn't know it, he's far out of his league."

"So tell him."

"I can't. Such knowledge would just give him a-a _challenge._ He would be _happy._ _Over the moon._ And before I could stop him, he'd be turned into a toad, or worse, turning people into toads himself!" Mycroft looked suddenly very tired. "And taking him off the case would just encourage him to look deeper. He takes such a lot of looking after."

Merlin was silent for a moment, and then, unexpectedly, laughed. "So, you want me to babysit some arrogant prat who doesn't have a clue while he tries to save the world?"

Mycroft coughed again. "I realize that of course I have overstepped-"

"Actually," Merlin said grinning, "I'll do it. This should be very entertaining."

He grabbed the file from Mycroft and turned to leave.

"And like I said," he called over his shoulder, "I'm bored."

Mycroft collapsed back in his chair and wiped a few beads of sweat off his forehead.

 _I don't get paid enough for this._

Chapter Five

Back in his flat, Merlin put a kettle of tea on to boil and turned on "Shout" by Tears for Fears to play over his speaker system. He had a certain fondness for 80's music and classic rock, although he had always thought the fashions from the same era were hideous. He poured the tea before he sat down at his kitchen table to look through the file. Kilgarrah, his large orange tabby cat, bounded onto the table in front of him and sat down smack in the middle of the papers, his huge claws kneading them while his large golden eyes stared at Merlin accusingly.

"Oh come off it! A man is dead, I can't help?" Merlin said irritably.

 _Remember what happens when you "help",_ the cat thought accusingly. _You still dream of the results._

"I'm a grown up! Actually, I'm the equivalent of several hundred generations of grownups."

 _You're just bored,_ the cat sniffed.

"Alright, fine, I'm bored. But I'm channeling my boredom productively. Don't judge."

 _You'll regret it_ , the cat warned, but Kilgarrah hopped off the file and left the room, tail twitching. _And switch that stupid song, you know I prefer Bad Company._

 _That cat,_ Merlin thought acidly. _Always has to have the last word._ He squelched a nagging feeling of guilt and opened the file.

Fifteen minutes later, he closed it and stared off into the distance, neglecting his freshly brewed cup of tea.

In short, two days earlier, a construction worker laboring on a new skyscraper had discovered the burned remains of someone tied to a stake on the unfinished thirteenth floor. Forensics had declared the man was alive when burned, and had identified him as one Thomas Malory. There had been a single spray painted message in front of the corpse:

Death to sorcerers.

Merlin knew Malory slightly; the man had been a sorcerer of some standing in the magical community. Overpowering him wouldn't have been easy, which led to the disturbing conclusion that probably more than one person had been involved in his death.

Merlin frowned. His murderers wouldn't be ordinary people either; the magical community, faced with hatred, misunderstanding, and bigotry, had long ago decided to keep their existence secret from the general populace. Therefore, the fact that whoever killed Thomas Malory knew that he was a sorcerer meant that they were either exponentially high up in British Government, or, a member of the Other Government.

Scary thought.

Mycroft was right; an act like this left unsolved and unpunished would surely result in war between the magical and non-magical factions, and almost certainly would lead to the revelation of magic to the world.

 _Why stop it?_ Merlin thought. _After all, I've wished my entire life for magic to be accepted by the world. If all was revealed, I would no longer have to hide._ He sighed. _But I'm old now, and if not wise, then I've seen enough of the world to know that would only lead to misunderstanding and death._

Merlin hated getting involved. He didn't killing people, and every time someone died, he felt like they took a little bit of whatever goodness he had with them. He was tired of sacrificing his own morals for the greater good.

But sometimes, it was necessary.

He would start by questioning the people who directly knew Thomas Malory, and knew the man was a sorcerer.


	2. Part Two

_Ooops… Forgot to say I don't own Merlin or Sherlock. If I did I would treat them better, you hear that BBC?!_

Chapter Six

Sherlock was in a high temper when he left his brother's office. How _dare_ Mycroft interfere with his investigation! Did he tell Mycroft how to run the country? Of course not. This entire situation was ridiculous. Matter of national security or not, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, could handle himself without a babysitter. Didn't Mycroft know he preferred to work alone?

Except for John, of course. And maybe Lestrade, unintelligent grunt that he was.

It didn't help that this "specialist" looked to be about twenty-five at most. And specialist in what exactly? _Damn,_ Mycroft was infuriating. Although, (and Sherlock smiled reluctantly) it would be amusing to find out exactly who this "Merlin" was and what he specialized in…..

He dashed up the creaking stairs at 221B Baker Street stuck his head through his flat door and bellowed "John!"

"What?!"

"Come on already! The game is afoot!" He rattled his way back down the stairs.

He could hear his roommate cursing quietly and steadily as John followed him. Sherlock was already hailing a taxi by the time the short blond man, looking rumpled, emerged from the front door.

"You know you could at least _ask_ if I'm available or have other plans," John said irritably.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you're available."

John heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock smiled evilly. "To question the family, of course."

John rolled his eyes. "God help them."

Thomas Malory had lived with his wife and daughter in a townhouse in a quiet area of London. His widow, dressed in black with red, puffy eyes, was slow to open the door when Merlin knocked, and she leaned on the door frame like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Merlin's eyes were quick to not the triskelion Druid tattoo on her left hand. She was almost as quick to recognize him; Druids always could.

"My lord Emrys!" she gasped.

Merlin gave her a charming smile. "Please, you must call me Merlin. I'm terribly sorry to disturb you in your time of grief, but do you have a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you about Thomas."

"My l- Merlin, I can't thank you enough for taking an interest in my poor Thomas but-" she leaned towards him and whispered, "There's already people here…a horribly rude man and his friend….."

Merlin groaned mentally. Of course that git was already here.

"Ah yes," he said pleasantly. "I'm sorry if they upset you. But the thing is, I'm afraid I'm actually working with them."

She raised an eyebrow. "God help you then," she said. "In that case, come in."

Merlin followed her through a long dark hallway into a somewhat cluttered sitting room with an abundance of chintz fabric, leather books, and tea cups. Sherlock Holmes was perched incongruously on the edge of a delicate chair, looking as out of place as a vulture in a tea shop.

"There you are;" he said in a bored tone of voice. "As I was asking, you're _quite_ positive your husband wasn't having an affair? Certain evidence suggests-"

"Sherlock!" John said in a shocked voice from the chintz-covered sofa.

"Hm? Yes, of course, John, you're right-it's obviously the lady of the house herself that's having the affair-"

"SHERLOCK!"

"What? Oh," the detective stopped speaking, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Merlin.

The warlock gave them an insincere smile. "Hello, I'm Me-"

"The specialist, I know. Sit down, shut up."

The druidess gasped again.

Merlin raised an eyebrow.

The universe flinched.

Even Sherlock must have felt on a subconscious level the sudden rise of static electricity in the room, because he paused, a strange look on his face like he'd forgotten something he should have known.

Merlin was half tempted to replace the Hat Detective's tongue with a toad and see what a smart-arse Sherlock Holmes was then, but restrained himself.

Instead, he took advantage of the sudden silence to say politely, "As you're hopefully quite done demonstrating your frankly appalling lack of all tact, sensitivity, and manners, I'll be asking Mrs. Malory a few questions."

Silence.

"Excellent." He leaned against the wall. "Now, Mrs. Malory, I realize this is difficult, but I must ask: how aware are you of the full details of Thomas's death?"

"I was told everything," she said quietly.

"Then I'm sure you know why I ask-did Thomas have any enemies who…ah….didn't share his interests?"

 _You mean magic,_ she said mentally.

 _Yes._

"All of Thomas's friends shared…common interests…with him," she said aloud. "He met all of them through his work as proprietor of the Questing Beast. As I'm sure you know, admittance to our club is…..selective. By invitation only."

Sherlock chose this moment to speak again. "By common interests, I assume you refer to Mr. Malory's interest in the arcane and paranormal."

Mrs. Malory's and Merlin's eyes flicked towards each other in warning.

 _How much should they know?_

 _Preferably as little as possible. I'll handle it._

John looked confused. "Sorry, what? How can you tell his interests were arcane?"

Sherlock smirked. "Just look at the books. The bundles of herbs over every door. The smell of incense."

"I knew Mr. Malory slightly," Merlin said. "He was quite renowned as a collector of unusual artifacts and knowledge."

"Obviously too renowned," Sherlock stated. "Given the archaic and ritualistic method of his murder, I believe we are looking for someone who shares his interests. Perhaps another collector coveted Mr. Malory's possessions?"

The widow shook her head. "Impossible. Other-collectors-had no need to _murder_ Thomas. None of his…collection….was as rare as all that. Archaic, yes, but easily obtained, if you know the right people."

"I think you'll find I'm right," Sherlock said stubbornly.

Merlin mentally rolled his eyes.

"Did Mr. Malory know anybody who could have worked for the government?" He asked aloud. Mentally, he said, _Did anybody who wasn't magic know Mr. Malory was a sorcerer?_

"Not that I know of," Mrs. Malory replied. "Terri might know of someone….I don't know…but I hardly think so…"

"Terri?"

"My daughter. She's out right now, helping my brother-in-law with the books at the club….it's good to keep busy…" Her voice broke.

Merlin rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. "Thank you, Mrs. Malory, you've been a great help. I'm very sorry for your loss."

He turned to go. "Coming, Sherlock?"

The detective was staring at him again with an odd look on his face.

"Hm? Yes, yes. We're done here. Come on, John.

At the door, the man of science and the man of magic parted and went their separate ways, but sharing a single thought:

 _That one isn't to be underestimated._


	3. Part Three

Chapter 7

To his credit, after leaving the Malorys' Merlin entertained the possibility of going after Sherlock and keeping an eye on him for approximately ten seconds. After all, they were supposed to be working together….weren't they? Then he mentally shrugged.

The real priority in his opinion was solving the murder, and he couldn't work effectively trailing around after that irritating bastard. At first he had thought observing the detective's antics up close would be immensely funny, but after that debacle at the Malorys' Merlin had realized that Sherlock Holmes, with his complete lack of tact and his disturbingly accurate deductions was best kept off the case as much as possible. What if Sherlock _did_ discover magic and use it? He would be testing the limits of reality within a week.

Merlin shuddered to think of it.

Out of courtesy to Mycroft, he'd watch out for Sherlock if their paths intersected again, but he wasn't going to go out of his way.

Minimal involvement. Minimal impact. Minimal attachment. That was always best.

He slid earbuds into his ears and listened to Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart by Chris Cornell while he walked to the Questing Beast.

The nightclub previously owned by Thomas Malory was housed in an old industrial warehouse. It was dark by the time Merlin arrived, and people were already trailing in by the twos and threes, each pausing briefly at the front door until the doorman allowed them in.

Merlin paused down the street, and took a moment to put a spell on himself that would prevent detection of his true identity by druids. Most people thought he was just a myth nowadays, but druids of the old school always recognized him, and in social settings he preferred to be anonymous.

Once suitably shielded, he approached the door of the Questing Beast.

"Identification?" the doorman growled.

Merlin let his eyes flare gold and conjured a fireball to dance on the tips of his fingers.

The doorman nodded in satisfaction, and stood aside, letting the warlock pass. Once inside, Merlin halted, as Fighting by Saints of Valory struck his ears, the base so heavy he could feel it vibrating in his chest. He'd been to the Questing Beast a few times, but it never ceased to amaze him; it was the only club exclusively catering to the magical community in all of England. Everywhere he looked, there were people dancing, drinking…and performing magic. A girl leaning over the balcony that ran around the cavernous space was summoning birds made of colored smoke, letting them fly out over the people below before they dissolved into nothing. An obviously drunk man over at the bar had bewitched his tie to hiss and coil like a snake.

And they were only representatives of the human customers. Flocks of Shee chased the gyrating colored lights, and Merlin thought he spotted several werewolves and other shapeshifters, not to mention the centaur that was kicking up his heels on the dance floor.

Merlin smiled as he made his way over to the bar. The bartender, a pretty girl with an abundance of dark hair and huge green eyes, gave him flirty one-sided smirk.

"Hey there, handsome. What'll you have?"

"A Guinness, to start."

When she returned with the beer, she leaned her elbow on the counter and propped her chin on her hand. "You know, I can put names to the faces on most of the regulars here. This community's pretty small, after all. But I _don't_ know you. What's your name?"

"My name's Merlin."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure. In that case, _Merlin_ , you can call me Morgana. People say I look like her, going by old paintings anyway. Like any of those people actually existed."

Merlin grinned. "You don't believe that any of them were real?"

"Morgana" shrugged. "I don't think so. I mean, they're just myths, right? Kid's stories. Why, do you?"

The memory of Arthur throwing his goblet at Merlin's head seemed to echo down through the intervening years.

Merlin laughed. "Let's say I've seen some pretty convincing proof…"

She rolled her eyes again. "You're like my mum. She lives and dies by the old religion. Poor old dear is convinced that Arthur will rise again. In fact, she called me earlier saying the actual Merlin had been by to see her. I think grief's turned her brain."

Merlin had a pretty good idea by now that "Morgana" was actually Terri, Thomas Malory's daughter.

"Grief?" he asked.

"My father died recently."

"Pardon me saying so, but you don't seem very upset."

"We shared a house, but we weren't close. You could say we had different views about things. Of course, the way he died….I wouldn't wish that on anybody."

Merlin looked at her sadly. She suddenly reminded him very much of that other Morgana, all those years ago, who had been kind and good, and then fire and ice and burning hate. Today, there were neat labels for people like that: sociopaths. Delusional. Fixated. But in his experience, reality was more complicated than a single adjective; people like Morgana were a labyrinth at their very core, layers of pain and conflicting motives stacking on top of each other, uniting into a blaze of harsh purpose and idealism.

"I've heard about how your father died," he said. "So violently….do you know if he had any fights lately with non-magic people who knew about his sorcery?"

She frowned. "Yeah…as a matter of fact….I walked in on him having a huge row with some bloke about a week ago…"

"Really? Who?"

"I don't know…some posh bugger in a suit. He had brown hair, and a funny kind of name I think…I heard my father call him by it. Mike? Mikecrift? Something like that."

"Mycroft?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right-"

Of course, it was just then that Sherlock Holmes came bursting in from the door into the kitchen accompanied by the sound of shrieking alarms.

Chapter 8

 _Some time earlier_

After leaving the widow's house, Sherlock stalked along in brooding silence, ignoring John who practically had to run next to him in order to keep up with Sherlock's longer-legged stride.

The detective had been attracted to the Malory case by its unusual characteristics from the start (who believed enough in magic to kill a man for it?), but the case was rapidly becoming even more fascinating.

Who _was_ Merlin? The widow knew him, he could tell. But she also _feared_ him, and seemed to be of the opinion that Sherlock should be afraid of him as well. But what was odd was that Sherlock _had_ been afraid of him, just for a second….And Sherlock, who was almostnever afraid, was at a loss to logically explain why.

And what were the "interests" they spoke of that they seemed to think had gotten Malory killed? Obviously Malory had been a student of the arcane. Was that what Merlin "specialized" in? That would make sense. Was a cult involved? But if that was the case, why would Mycroft be so damn twitchy about it?

And moreover, why was Merlin so convinced that Malory's fellow collectors of the weird and unusual had nothing to do with his death? Given certain facets of the case…..

Dammit, Mycroft had been right. He did find Merlin an interesting study.

"Taxi!" Sherlock yelled, throwing out his arm to summon a cab.

"Where are we going?" John panted.

"To the Questing Beast nightclub," Sherlock informed both the cabby and John simultaneously.

"Wait, I thought that people had to have a membership to get in-"

"We're breaking in. Obviously."

In the back of the cab, Sherlock continued to attack the problem of Merlin. It was strange, but Merlin in some way reminded Sherlock of himself. There were some superficial physical similarities, of course, but the resemblance ran deeper than that. As a child, Sherlock had suffered from a profound loneliness, a harsh knowledge of the fact that he was deeply different from any of his peers. This loneliness had largely persisted into adulthood, masked by Sherlock's icy intellect and armor of razor-sharp sarcasm.

Sherlock had always been called a freak, inhuman.

Somehow, he knew the same was true for Merlin.

Now, Sherlock had John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.

As far as he could tell, Merlin had no one.

After struggling through London traffic, Sherlock ordered the cabby to drop them off a block from the Questing Beast. He and John cut into the alley behind the nightclub, were Sherlock then presumed to inflict his considerable lock-picking abilities on the nightclub's rear door.

"I'll have you know I'm not taking the fall when this goes wrong," John hissed.

"Why would I need to be told that," Sherlock said absently, listening to the minute clicks emitting from the lock.

"Remember that incident with the spray paint?"

Sherlock held up a hand for silence; with one final _click_ the door swung open. The two of them walked with studied confidence through the door and into a storeroom, then down a hallway, following the sound of music.

Everything went perfectly until they walked through the kitchen and into the main body of the club.

Then the alarms began.

Chapter 9

Merlin shut out the club lights the instant the alarms started, plunging the area into complete darkness. He didn't fancy having to explain a centaur to Sherlock Holmes. There was an instant deafening uproar; the music was still playing and now everyone was shouting.

Then everyone started trying to put the lights back on. Spells were flying so thickly Merlin could practically taste them.

Actually, he could taste them; some spectacularly drunk idiot seemed to have thought a spell to exponentially enhance the sense of taste would be useful.

With a _pop_ the lights briefly flickered on, and then exploded in a shower of sparks when Merlin blew out the lights for the entire block.

He removed the taste-enhancing spell, and used magic to let him see in the dark. It didn't take him long to find Sherlock and John standing in shell-shocked surprise by the kitchen door.

Or at least, John was standing in shell-shocked surprise.

Where Sherlock had been standing was a very confused-looking otter.

Merlin grabbed the otter by the scruff of its neck and John by the collar of his coat and dragged them both back outside to the alley, leaving a great amount of very angry drunk sorcerers behind him.

"Where's Sherlock?!" John yelled, struggling to run back inside.

"Here," Merlin said coldly, and handed him the otter, which promptly nestled into John's coat, making contented grunting sounds.

John blinked. "What. The hell. Where is he?!"

"He's the otter. It's magic. Try to keep up."

"Impossible," said John.

They both looked at the otter, which was chewing on John's lapel.

"He was apparently hit by a spell that transforms its subject into their inner animal," Merlin said.

"Sherlock's inner animal is an otter?" John asked in a dazed tone.

"You don't think it's accurate?"

"No, no, it's very accurate…..what's mine?"

Merlin stared at John intently. "I should say a hedgehog. Definitely a hedgehog."

John shook his head like he was trying to rid himself of a buzzing fly.

"Prove it. Prove the otter is Sherlock."

"Fine. We'll have to go back to my flat. This is going to take some supplies."

They both looked at the otter again.

"Bloody hell," said Merlin.

"This can't be actually happening," said John.

 _Squeak_ , said Sherlock.

 _Ehehehe;) Sorry about the cliffhanger but I couldn't resist…. I'll update as soon as I can. In the meantime, this_ _ **is**_ _my first fanfic, and so feedback would be welcome. Sooo….reviews? *cue puppy eyes*_


	4. Part Four

Chapter 10

Merlin and John ended up walking back to Merlin's flat as they were unable to find a cab that would accommodate Sherlock in his current ottery form. They walked along in tense silence for a few minutes, and then John spoke.

"Not to bring up the elephant-sorry, _otter_ -in the room, but how the hell did this happen?"

"Magic. I _said_ already."

"How would you know?"

"I'm a warlock."

"Sorry, you're a _what_?"

"Warlock. Someone who was born with natural magical ability."

"Were you the one who did this to Sherlock?"

"Nope."

"Alright then."

"Then who did?"

"A sorcerer at that club."

"So the 'exclusive membership' refers to….magic users?"

"Mmm."

There was silence for another few minutes. Then John spoke again.

"So when Sherlock said you were some kind of specialist, he was talking about magic?"

"Yep."

"Bloody hell, does Sherlock know about magic?!"

"NO, and he can't. EVER."

"Why….."

"He's Sherlock Holmes. Give him knowledge of magic, and there's no telling what he'll do. Think of the _experiments._ "

John paled.

"Yes, yes, of course…" he said faintly. "Wait, he can't hear us, can he?"

"Nah. He doesn't seem to make a very intelligent otter."

"But we can turn him back, right?"

" _I_ can. You'll mostly be staying out of the way."

John sighed. "So, is Merlin even your real name, or do you just take it because of that old geezer in the King Arthur legends?"

"It's my real name"

"Your mum must have been a big fan of those legends."

"Not really."

"Then how….wait. _No._ You're not _the_ Merlin, are you? The stories said he was immortal…You can't be. He was old. You can't be a day over twenty-five."

"Eternal youth is one of the perks of immortality."

John looked delighted. "No way...that's fantastic!"

"…thanks."

"But Sherlock can't know you, or magic?"

"OH HELL no."

"But how? I mean, he's been turned into an otter…..that's a little hard to miss."

Merlin laughed. "Don't worry about it. You could say that covering up magic is one of my talents….I'll do a spell to adjust his memory so that he thinks that he was hit on the head. Any memory bleeding through can be chalked up to hallucinations caused by head trauma."

"If you think that will work…"

"Trust me. I've done it before."

They continued walking in silence. Interiorly, however, Merlin was fuming. Leave it to Sherlock bloody Holmes to bollocks things up! Undoing the transformation and adjusting the detective's memory would be easy-but that would still leave Sherlock sitting in Merlin's flat.

His flat. Which was full of magical artifacts. And books of magic. Not to mention the Van Gogh painting. Or the sketch that had been given to Merlin by his dear friend Leonardo da Vinci…..or the small marble dragon that Michelangelo had done for him….that would be hard to explain…

Sherlock would have a field day. And Merlin didn't particularly want his private life and history relentlessly scrutinized.

Damn it, Sherlock.

Chapter 11

Back at Merlin's flat (which was on the second floor of a two-story building, right over a used bookstore), Merlin started grabbing herbs and talismans from his cupboards while John sat at his kitchen table, clutching the otter and staring at Kilgarrah with an unnerved look on his face.

Kilgarrah had prowled in to the room as he smelled the otter, and was now eyeing the animal with a predatory look in his eye.

 _Is that for me? You shouldn't have._

"No, you can't eat the otter," Merlin said irritably.

John flinched. "What?"

"I was talking to Kilgarrah."

"The cat?"

"Yes. Kilgarrah's my familiar."

"Right," John said in studiously neutral tone.

Merlin rapidly combined several herbs and strange-looking powders in large mixing bowl before declaring brightly,

"That should do it!"

And he threw the contents of the bowl straight over the otter, which was still in John's arms.

Sherlock didn't really remember much after bursting into the Questing Beast except flashing lights and very loud noises, but now he was lying on the floor in a strange place in the arms of his roommate.

His first conclusion was that he'd just been on the worst bender of his entire life.

Sherlock practically levitated to his feet, clutching his coat around him protectively.

"What the hell happened," he snarled.

Merlin smiled gently. "You were hit in the head," he said.

And indeed there was lump blossoming on the back of Sherlock's skull. (Merlin had just rapped him there with his wooden mixing spoon to make the story convincing.)

"You were really out of it," Merlin continued. "John and I brought you back to my place as it was closer than your flat so we could help you, John being a doctor and all. As a matter of fact, I have my own medical degree, although I don't practice."

"Why was I on the floor?"

"You fell. John was trying to support you, but you brought him down with you."

Sherlock's eyes flicked from Merlin to John, who were both smiling innocently.

"You had better go get some sleep," Merlin continued smoothly. "I promise you don't have a concussion."

"Come on, Sherlock," John said soothingly, and he ushered Sherlock out the door, mouthing _I'll take care of him_ to Merlin behind Sherlock's back.

After the door clicked shut behind them, Merlin collapsed into a kitchen and exhaled.

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've done in a hundred years," he said.

 _I don't know,_ said Kilgarrah. _Remember that cocktail waitress in Blackpool?_

Merlin winced. "Trying not to."

Then he hunched over the table and frowned. It was a pity he hadn't been able to talk longer to Terri; that conversation had just taken a very interesting turn…in fact, given what Terri had shared about Mycroft, Merlin had to consider the possibility that Sherlock had turned up at the Questing Beast for the express purpose of preventing Merlin from questioning Terri.

But Mycroft Holmes couldn't be the murderer….could he? He had knowledge that Malory was a sorcerer. He definitely had the means. And he very well might hate magic and want to destroy it. But if that was the case, why would he ask Merlin for help?

Merlin stared into space and thought.

That would deflect Mycroft's guilt…..unless….. he had asked Merlin for help just in order to avoid suspicion. Because Merlin would have found out about the murder eventually; the magical community was fairly tight-knit and news traveled quickly. By asking Merlin for help, Mycroft removed himself from the suspect list. And more disturbingly, Mycroft could have approached Merlin in order to gain the warlock's trust because Mycroft intended to kill Merlin later. The Other Government had first been formed to keep an eye on Merlin after Queen Guinevere's death; the government which succeeded her viewed Merlin as a potential high-level threat. (The Other Government had later expanded to encompass all magical affairs.) As the head of the Other Government, Mycroft would be well aware Merlin's considerable abilities. Strategically, the defining blow in any war against magic would be to kill the world's most powerful warlock.

So asking Merlin for help could be an illustration of that old maxim:

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

These considerations left Merlin with several questions:

Was Terri telling the truth? (But why would she lie?)

According to Terri, Mycroft had a fight with Malory. If it had nothing to do with Malory's murder, why would Mycroft not mention it?

Was Sherlock helping Mycroft? (Merlin didn't think so, but you could never tell.)

And finally, if Mycroft Holmes had burned Thomas Malory at stake, a man who as owner of the Questing Beast was a pillar of the magical community, who did Mycroft intend to kill next?

Probably Merlin himself.

 _Well_ , Merlin thought, _if that's the case, let him come. I'd rather like to see him try killing me in my sleep._

The Questing Beast was probably closed by now; he'd return to question Terri more in the morning.

He retired to bed for a scant amount of sleep, his head full of disquieting thoughts, and slept fitfully, wracked by dreams.

 _I'll post more soon! And Angelcat8, thanks for the review_


	5. Part Five

Chapter 12

Merlin woke to Kilgarrah pawing him on the face.

"What?"

 _You were yelling again._

"Oh," Merlin said tiredly.

 _Maybe you should try sleeping meds. Then maybe I could actually get some sleep._ The cat spoke sarcastically, but there was a worried look in his gold eyes.

Merlin swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up.

"You know I don't want those lying around."

 _You need to try_ _ **something.**_ The cat bounded off the bed and left the room, tail twitching.

Merlin sat on the side of his bed for a moment, staring at the floor. His brain was still trailing scraps of dreams, a mixed-up jumble of screams, death, love and pain.

One of the unfortunate side effects of living forever was that you racked up far more than your fair share of nightmares.

To Merlin, Arthur and Freya had been his first and dearest friends to die in his arms, but the Lady of the Lake and Once and Future King had hardly been the last.

He had lived through every war and revolution in the past thousand years.

So yeah, Merlin Emrys dreamed a lot about death.

He rose, stretched, and made his way to the bathroom, where he stared blearily at his face in the mirror, and rubbed the stubble on his face absently before deciding to go for the scruffy look.

He had gotten out of the shower and was in the act of pulling a dark red t-shirt over his head when the headache struck.

Merlin bent from the waist like he'd been punched in the stomach, and slid down the bathroom wall, clutching his head feeling like if he didn't large pieces of skull would start breaking apart.

He'd experienced a lot of pain, but this was different; it was as though someone had taken a supernova and tried to cram it into his brain.

Then, the images started coming; every single person he had ever seen die, by his own hand or another, every choice he had ever regretted flashed in front of his eyes.

He didn't know how long it lasted, but it felt like forever, until a voice cut through his consciousness.

 _Merlin? Merlin!_

 _Unhhhhh_ , he thought.

 _MERLIN!_

The pain abated to a dull, steady ache.

Merlin staggered upright, puked into the toilet, and spat blood. He'd bitten his tongue.

Then it struck him who the voice must have belonged to.

"Kilgarrah!"

He managed to limp out of the bathroom, and found the cat hunched on the floor, face contorted into a grimace of pain.

 _I've used the link between my consciousness and yours to help you bear the pain._

"Oh, Kilgarrah. You shouldn't have done that."

 _Yeah, you're welcome. Love you too. You had better figure out how to fix this ASAP. Or is this you finally going senile?_

"I don't know what this is."

 _Brain tumor, maybe? Just a thought._

Merlin used magic to search himself for illness.

"There's nothing physically wrong with me."

 _Great. Fabulous. So what is wrong, then? 'Cause this is definitely wrong._

Merlin paused.

"I don't know," he said helplessly.

 _WELL YOU BETTER DAMN WELL FIGURE IT OUT. I'll say it if you won't. This might be you finally really feeling the effects of all you've been through._

"You mean I'm finally going insane."

 _Heh…I'm pretty sure you were born crazy….but yeah._

Of course it was then that Merlin's cell phone rang.

 _You should get that. It must be important, since almost no one has your number._

Merlin answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"This is Mycroft Holmes," a male voice said tersely. "You need to go to the Questing Beast. Now."

There was a _click_ as he hung up.

Merlin felt a terrible weight settle in the pit of his stomach. "No," he whispered. "Oh God, no."

Chapter 13

When Merlin arrived at the Questing Beast, he found the door crossed over by crime scene tape, and several police cars parked outside, with officers standing around and talking in hushed voices. He was greeted by a grey-haired man who looked to be in his forties.

"Mr. Emrys, yeah? I'm Detective-Inspector Lestrade. I was told you'd be along." He grimaced. "Sherlock's already here, lording it over my crime scene."

Merlin smiled wanly. "He seems to do that a lot."

"I don't why we let that freak anywhere near our crime scenes," said a pretty woman standing beside Lestrade. "You're not a friend of the freak's, are you?" she asked, eying Merlin beadily.

"Not really," Merlin said shortly. "But you shouldn't call him freak, it's rude and infantile."

"This is Sergeant Sally Donovan," Lestrade said loudly before the woman could respond. "Sergeant, this is Mr. Merlin Emrys. He's a specialist, sent down from powers on high."

"Alright then." She said as she turned to go. "You don't look so well, Mr. Emrys. Sure that Sherlock didn't slip something lethal into your drink just so see what it does?" she added cattily.

"Yes, thank you, Sally," Lestrade said in an exasperated tone. "Come on, I'll show you the crime scene."

Inside the Questing Beast, Merlin saw a huddle of people, including Sherlock and John standing around a prone form lying on the ground.

The ache in Merlin's head had the odd effect of half-drowning out surrounding noise; the strange feeling of disembodied silence, punctuated only by his pounding heartbeat, intensified as he approached the body.

When he saw her, he felt like being sick again.

Terri Malory lay like a broken doll on the black cement floor, her legs bent to one side and her arms thrown out. There was a neat red bullet hole punched in the middle of the creamy skin on her forehead.

Her green eyes were wide, and her mouth was half open, twisting the death mask of her face into an expression of darkly comic surprise. Her long hair, matted with blood, snaked out in a halo around her head.

Spray painted on the floor next to her was the message _Witches must die._

"Another murder with the "down with sorcery" theme," Lestrade said softly. "Looks like we've got ourselves a serial killer. Eh, Mr. Emrys?"

Merlin didn't reply. He was staring fixedly at Terri's corpse, a girl who had been alive and laughing not even twenty-four hours ago.

He saw another girl's body, from a thousand years ago, lying on her back in the dirt with her blood and Arthur's all over his hands.

Lestrade was saying something, but he didn't listen because he had blood all over his hands and he should have thought that she'd be in danger and he should have protected her _dammit_ he should have protected her…..

Bored. Yesterday he'd said he was bored, flippantly….

"Mr. Emrys?"

"What? Oh, yeah."

"Not seen a lot of bodies, have you?"

"Too many."

Lestrade gave him a sideways look. "Her uncle's the one who found the body. He's over this way if you want to talk to him…..you'll probably want to before Sherlock pisses him off so much he won't talk without a lawyer."

"Hmm? Yeah, yeah I'd like to talk to him."

He tore his eyes away from Terri's corpse.

Timothy Malory, Terri's uncle, was sitting at the bar, staring fixedly into space.

"Mr. Malory?" Lestrade said gently. "This is Mr. Emrys. He'll be asking you a few quest-"

"I know who you are," Malory said harshly. His burning eyes turned to glare at Merlin. "How could you let this happen? You're supposed to protect us. Protect us from people like the sonofabitch who killed my family."

Lestrade's eyebrows rose. "I'll just leave you to it, then," he muttered, and left.

"I know. I'm sorry-" Merlin said.

Malory spat. "Sorry? You're sorry. Yeah, you're a sorry _excuse_ for a warlock. You're the oldest of all of us, and yet you stand idly by, _waiting_ for your precious king. You never were on the side of magic. Not ever."

"I'm sorry," Merlin said again miserably, the pounding in his head intensifying.

"Just tell me _why_ ," Malory snarled. "Why do you stand by and do nothing? _Why?_ Why don't you lead the users of magic into the light and let the world know our power?"

"Because of this," Merlin said fiercely, pointing at Terri's body. "We come into the light, people won't understand. They never have, and they never will. Salem. Camelot. All during history, people have viewed magic with hatred. Terri and your brother were _killed_ because someone knew about their magic. People fear what they don't understand, and fear is the father of cruelty. I don't 'lead you into the light' because the world isn't ready yet. And I don't know if it ever will be."

His final words fell into heavy silence. Then Timothy Malory spat again, this time in Merlin's face.

"We're stronger than they are," he hissed. "It's time people knew that."

He left Merlin standing there, and stalked away.

 _So I'm letting the story take a darker turn (which I intended from the beginning.) If you have questions, comments, or feedback please let me know!_


	6. Part Six

Chapter 14

Sherlock was irritated. This entire case was the most irrational he'd ever come across; the only things that were readily apparent to him probably had no bearing on the matter at hand.

He knew that there was some central theme to the murder (now murders) that seemingly everyone else was aware of except for him, but the only logical possibility he could come up with was that this whole thing was caused by some kind of cult. If he could only guess the main mystery, he knew he could solve the case.

But he didn't know. And he hated not knowing.

To make matters worse, something had happened to him last night….John wouldn't talk about it, but after returning from the Questing Beast Sherlock had had some very unusual dreams, in which the world and all the people were about fifty times bigger than normal, and Sherlock himself was small and furry.

The strangeness had persisted when he'd woken up and found the flat at Baker Street infested with about a hundred and fifty frogs. In reaction to which, John had absolutely panicked and wanted to call Merlin, of all people.

Sherlock had told him if he was going to be such a princess, he should try kissing a few of the creatures.

After a morning like that, the dead body was honestly a relief.

Sherlock stared down at Terri's corpse, his mind processing and dismissing inconsequential information like _left-handed_ or _had trouble with her father._ He came to focus on one fact: the bullet hole. The wound was inflicted at close range, and given its position, she had been facing the attacker. However, there were no signs of a struggle, and the expression on her face was one of surprise, not fear.

Now that was interesting.

He didn't pay attention when Merlin came in, but he noticed when Timothy Malory tried to leave and was forcibly prevented by several officers. Then he saw Merlin standing by the bar, wiping his face with the sleeve of his leather jacket. Automatically, he took a moment to observe and deduce.

With the jacket, Merlin was wearing jeans, leather boots, and a dark red t-shirt, and there were dark hollows under his eyes. Sherlock concluded that he had a headache, hadn't slept well, hadn't eaten that morning, and for some reason was feeling immensely guilty about something, which was manifesting in anger.

Sherlock was distracted from his deductions by the _bing_ of the text message alert on John's phone.

"I have patients waiting," John said apologetically. "I have to go, but please just mention the frogs to Merlin?"

"Go? Why? Isn't this your day off?"

"Yeah, well try telling my patients that. Apparently it's an emergency." He scowled at Sherlock. "And don't forget about the frogs!"

"I can't imagine what Merlin is going to do about them."

"Just….trust me, okay? See you later."

Chapter 15

In Merlin's opinion, he never should have gotten himself involved in the Malory case. After all these centuries, you'd think he'd have learned to just stay out of the way and let history take its course. But he couldn't help himself. After Arthur had died, Merlin had been devastated, of course…but in a tiny, guilty part of himself he'd also been relieved. At last, it was done. His destiny was over, except for the waiting. No more ridiculous stunts to save Arthur's life, no more fearing for his safety if people found out about his magic.

It was over. Finished _._ The end.

He hated himself for that attitude; but there it was.

And then he had discovered that having free time on his hands was actually….horrible.

So he got involved, and people died, and in his opinion he never really accomplished anything, but every time he tried to settle down and live an ordinary life he'd feel it…that need. Tugging. Relentless.

You can change history, Merlin, it whispered. You can accomplish something. You can help people.

You don't have to be so bored.

Now, it had happened again, and a girl was dead at his feet, from all appearances just because she'd talked to him.

He could back out now, go back to his quiet life in retirement. But before he did, Merlin felt he at least owed it to Terri to bring her killer to justice. After all, he was already involved. Too late to change that.

He may not have been able to protect the girl, but you could be damn well sure he'd avenge her.

Merlin clenched his fists, and felt a crackle as a little electricity sparked around his closed hands.

Mycroft Holmes was about to discover what the world's most powerful warlock looked like pissed off.

Chapter 16

Mycroft was sorting through files when his office door exploded. Merlin was already across the room before Mycroft could stand, and he grabbed the bureaucrat by the lapels of his suit jacket, half-lifting him out of his chair with supernatural strength.

"I'm only going to ask nicely once," Merlin snarled. "Did you kill those people?"

 _*Cue dramatic music* Lol! I'll update more tomorrow (hopefully.) I would have written more today but life happened… oh, and btw I'm changing the rating to T. There's going to be more violence but no slash, so I guess M isn't really necessary._

 _-Angelcat8, thanks for the continuing feedback_ _and I'll try and mix in some more humor. (It does for a more enjoyable story make.) I can't promise though; we're getting near the climax and so things might be kinda intense!_


	7. Part Seven

If Mycroft was afraid, he didn't show it.

"No," he said simply. "I know you can use magic to tell if I'm lying or not. Stop being melodramatic and do it."

"Fine. Since you asked for it."

Mycroft was a few inches from Merlin's face, and he suddenly became aware of a very curious sensation. It was as though the gold in Merlin's eyes grew deeper and deeper, and darker and darker, until Mycroft felt as though he was disembodied, falling through blackness outside of all time and space.

He was wrenched back into his own mind by the sound of himself yelling.

Merlin dropped him back in his chair unceremoniously. "You are telling the truth," the warlock said. He sounded almost disappointed.

Mycroft adjusted his tie with hands that were shaking slightly. "Interesting technique you have. I admit….I've heard of that spell, but never actually experienced it…fascinating."

"As far as I know, only a few know it, counting me," Merlin said. "The only downside is, the person under the spell must agree to it first. Sadly. Sorry, by the way. For breaking your office. But," he added, "I was sure you were the killer!"

"Thank you ever so much," Mycroft said tartly. "Why, might I ask?"

"Before she was killed, Terri told me she'd seen you arguing with her father. And you do have means and opportunity."

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, I admit it," he said. "I did have something in the nature of a disagreement with Mr. Malory. But as far as I know, it had nothing to do with his death. I was simply asking him if he would consider opening his club to members of my government. I felt that it would increase mutual acceptance of one another's differences. Mr. Malory strongly disagreed. He felt that my government would…judge… his clientele. As it turns out, I suppose he was right."

There was a moment of silence.

"So," Mycroft said, "Have you made any actual progress on the case?"

"Not really. You were the only member of the member of the government seen arguing with Malory before he died. And now, I suppose we're back to square one. I suppose Thomas could have told someone we don't know of about his magic, and the person could have reacted badly, but that could be anyone. Or it could be any other member of your government. What's interesting though," Merlin continued, "Is that whoever did this was trying to frame you. I don't think it was a coincidence that Terri died after talking to me. I thought that her death was the result of you trying to conceal something she knew, but it just as well could have been someone trying to actively point my attention towards you."

"That should give you something to go on then," Mycroft said. "If the murderer knew about my position in the government then that rules out random civilian."

Merlin rubbed his still-pounding head. "So still back to square one," he repeated tiredly.

Chapter 17

Sherlock hadn't gotten anything useful out of Timothy Malory; after the man had talked to Merlin he refused, stony-faced, to say anything more except that he had no idea how his niece met her end.

And Merlin had disappeared, so Sherlock couldn't ask him what Timothy had said. Disgruntled, he returned to Baker Street only to find his flat still full of hopping amphibians. Left to his own devices, Sherlock probably could have co-existed quite happily with the frogs (save for the occasional dissection), but there were a succession of texts from John waiting on his phone.

 _Don't forget to ask Merlin about the frogs._

 _I'm not going to live with them, it's unnatural._

 _Sherlock, are you even checking these?_

 _I do pay half the rent_

 _SHERLOCK  
MERLIN  
FROGS _

Well, he needed to found out what Merlin knew about Malory, so he might as well ask about the frogs too.

Mycroft had given Sherlock Merlin's cell number ("For emergencies," Mycroft had said cryptically,) so Sherlock gritted his teeth and sent the man a text.

 _Need what info you have on Malory case, will meet at your apartment._

 _-SH_

At Merlin's flat, he was forced to wait a further fifteen minutes for the other man to arrive, tapping his foot irritably the whole time. He probably would have broken in, (wasn't that a Van Gogh he had seen there the other night? Fascinating.), but he supposed that might damage Merlin's cooperation.

Merlin finally did arrive, still looking distinctly unwell, and fumbled with his keys trying to open the door. (Clumsy, like Sherlock had predicted.) When the door finally did swing open, both men started to enter….

And stopped dead.

John Watson was slumped against the wall opposite from the door, his head hanging, held semi-upright only by two spikes driven through each of his shoulders into the wall behind.

 _By now, I'm sure you know I love cliffhangers;) But I'll post more soon! We're getting near the end. (I think.)_

 _-Scoutbokmal: Thanks! I'm glad you like the story. Haha don't worry-Sherlock's gonna find out about magic soon, and then poor Merlin had better watch out…_


	8. Part Eight

_Ahhhhh! I'm sorry it's been a while since I updated! I was out of town on vacation and the place I was staying in had no wifi (oh, the horror, the horror.) But anyway here's the next part. Thanks for being patient! The story should be wrapped up in another post or two. As always, feel free to review_

Merlin felt frozen. Every single drop of blood had left Sherlock's face, but the detective was still the first to move, dashing across the room to John. In that one instant, Merlin saw Sherlock's carefully crafted mask of refined apathy slip off his face and shatter into pieces on the floor.

Sherlock grabbed John's lolling head, lifting his friend's still, bloodless face upright.

"OhgodnoJohnplease- Call 999!" he snarled at Merlin.

Merlin forced his legs to move. He could already tell calling an ambulance wasn't going to do anything; John was too far gone.

If he was still alive. Please, let him be alive.

"What are you doing? He needs help! _Shit,_ " Sherlock yelled and started to fumble in his coat pockets for his phone.

Merlin was very pale and breathing in gasps; his headache had gotten worse the moment he saw John.

Sherlock pulled out his phone.

From across the room, Merlin's hand twitched and the mobile exploded in a shower of sparks.

"It's too late for the EMTs," he said shortly.

Sherlock blinked and opened his mouth to protest that no, it wasn't too late, it couldn't be too late, because John Watson couldn't possibly be dead-

And then Merlin was standing next to him, his eyes glowing eerie gold.

"But not too late for me," the warlock said.

And then he grabbed John's shoulders.

Sherlock staggered backward. There was a sudden flare of light bright enough to be born from the heart of an atomic bomb, and he had the sudden impression that he, Merlin and John weren't standing in a small, cluttered flat, but a place of infinite white light, with no sky or horizons or ground.

It burned.

Chapter 18.

John Watson was dead. He was absolutely sure of that. He had been unconscious from pain during the instant his heart stopped beating, but after the fact he could identify that exact moment with hideous clarity.

He was somewhere else. He didn't know exactly where, but he had the impression of _space_ in which compared to he was approximately the size of a microbe.

Someone was calling his name.

He walked towards the voice- and then was stopped short by the sudden resurgent feeling of spikes through his shoulders. The spikes must have been connected to chains, because they dragged him backwards out of the big space, struggling and digging in his heels, reaching towards the voice still calling him.

Then another voice called him, from very far away, back from the land of death and pain.

Sherlock. _Of course it would be that bastard,_ John thought irritably. He liked it in the new place. There was a sense of peace there.

But abruptly he stopped struggling, and fell backwards into darkness.

Sherlock must have passed out for a moment, because when he opened his eyes he was on the floor of Merlin's flat (again.)

And slumped on the floor against the wall a few feet from him were an exhausted-looking Merlin, and…an unconscious but breathing and unmistakably alive John. There were no signs of spikes or wounds in John's shoulders.

If there hadn't still been huge bloodstains all over the wall and John's clothes, not to mention a massive burned circle on the wooden floor, Sherlock might have thought he'd imagined the whole thing.

Merlin moaned and sat upright, holding his head. Sherlock picked himself off the floor and stalked over to him, brushing ash off of his coat.

"Explain," he said coldly.

Merlin looked up, and Sherlock flinched involuntarily. The man's eyes were burning bright, unnatural gold, his corneas dissolved into endless universes of swirling flame.

Merlin smiled tiredly.

"Your brother is going to kill me," he said. "Or try, anyway."

" _What the hell?"_

"Magic. Not hell. That I know of. John's been far too good to have gone to hell."

"Magic isn't real. What. Did. You. Do?"

"Use your eyes," Merlin growled. "John was dead. For about five minutes of our time, by my count. Now he's not. Abracadbra. Shazam. Poof. Magic. _You're welcome._ "

Sherlock abruptly shifted gears.

"Fine. Magic. How did you do it? Who are you? What the hell does this have to do with my brother?"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Oh, thank you Merlin," he said sarcastically. "Thank you for bringing my friend back from the dead at enormous risk to yourself because you're just such a bloody fabulous human being. Thank you so much. You know my name. I'm Emrys. Merlin Emrys. I'm a warlock. Your brother asked me to help with this case because it has to do with magic and –surprise!- he didn't want you to know about it. Does that clarify things?"

Sherlock stared at him. "So is John fine then?"

"Yes."

"Why did this happen?"

Merlin heaved himself upright with a groan, his eyes fading back to bright blue.

"A message, I assume. For me and you. To back off."

Sherlock changed directions again.

"So the people who were killed-they actually were sorcerers?"

"Yep."

"And why is my brother so upset over it?"

"If the killer isn't caught and punished, war will probably break out between the magic and non-magic people in Britain at least, if not internationally. Magic would be revealed to the world. Anarchy. Chaos. All that fun stuff."

"Magic would be revealed to the world?"

"…Yeah? Why?"

Sherlock was staring fixedly into space, unblinking. Merlin clicked his fingers under the detective's nose. Sherlock didn't even twitch.

And, then slowly, triumphantly, Sherlock Holmes smiled.

"I know who the murderer is," he said.

"Oh? Do tell."

Sherlock turned on his heel and left out the still-open door.

Merlin swore quietly, glancing between the unconscious John, dreaming peacefully on the charred floorboards, to the bloody wall, his wrecked flat, and the departing genius.

 _To hell with it,_ he thought, and ran after Sherlock.

 _I should hopefully post more soon, life and reality permitting…_


	9. Part 9

Sherlock was hailing a cab when Merlin joined him on the sidewalk outside of the flat.

"Tell me where we're going," the warlock said in an exasperated tone of voice.

"The Questing Beast, of course," Sherlock said with an inflection that implied Merlin was terribly stupid for not guessing as much.

Merlin mentally facepalmed. "Why," he said.

"Because that's where the murderer will be," Sherlock said brightly as he got into the cab. "Timothy Malory killed his own family. Obviously."

Merlin fought off the urge to smack the detective over the head as he climbed into the cab after him. "No, not so obvious," he said.

Sherlock gave him an unfavorable look. "Between you and John," he muttered, and then continued in a precise voice: "Now that I possess the missing information, magic, the rest of the case became very clear. It was the motive that had previously eluded me. But now, I see that since Thomas and Terri Malory really were sorcerers, their deaths would accomplish two things: strife between magic and non-magic people, and possibly the revelation of magic. But then, I had to ask, who would want those results? And the answer is, _not_ someone who actually hates and fears magic. That person would not want sorcerers hunting after him. He would not want magic revealed to the world. That would be the last thing he wanted. If such a person were to kill sorcerers, he would do it quietly, and make the deaths look like perfectly commonplace murders.

So then, I asked myself, who would want those results? The correct answer is a sorcerer. Someone who was infuriated by the secrecy surrounding magic. Someone who would want an excuse to hunt after what he viewed as despicable, bigoted ordinary people. Taking into account that Timothy Malory had means, opportunity, an obviously obsessive personality, and was having an affair with his brother's wife, he was the obvious guilty party."

Merlin stared at him. "I can't believe that didn't occur to me," he said blankly.

"It was the simple principle of _Qui Bono?_ _Who benefits?_ But you are a man of another age, Merlin. You are _the_ Merlin, I assume? As such, you would find the burning of sorcerers by non-magical people inevitable and would find nothing out of the ordinary with the idea. Being all too used to persecution, your view of the case was biased."

"Guess it was lucky you stayed with the case after all. Seems I've gotten rusty in my old age."

"Indeed."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Ok, but listen, all right? When we get to the club, just stay in the cab. Taking down a sorcerer tends to get messy."

"You don't seem very well. Are you sure you can deal with Malory alone?"

Merlin rolled his eyes and then winced. "I'm fine."

"Hmmm."

"Really."

There was silence for a few minutes. Then Sherlock said, "Are you entirely sure that John will suffer no ill effects?"

"Yes. You don't have to worry. He'll sleep for awhile, and then wake up like nothing happened."

Sherlock seemed satisfied. In truth, there was a considerable amount of doubt lurking behind Merlin's confident words. Physically, he was sure that there was nothing wrong with John. But mentally and spiritually? He didn't really know. Resurrecting someone was amazingly powerful magic with a very small window for use, almost impossible even for him. He'd only recently learned the Lazarus spell; he didn't know of a single other person who had managed to use it successfully. It was the nature of the spell to call on forces even Merlin, who had gone face to face with gods, didn't really like to speak of. In order to resurrect and heal one who was truly dead, the spell ripped apart the very nature of reality.

Honestly, Merlin was amazed that he and John had survived. Although he felt like death warmed over, and the headache was putting him on edge.

He really hoped Timothy Malory didn't put up much of a fight.

When they pulled up in front of the Questing Beast, Merlin hauled himself out of the cab, and turned to glare at Sherlock. "Stay in the cab. I'm not joking." He rapped on the cabbie's window. "Keep driving."

He watched the cab pull away, its black form retreating down the street, and turned to face the club. The entire area was deserted at this hour, the sidewalk empty. There was no sign of the doorman in front of the locked entrance.

Merlin took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Breath in.

Ignore the pain.

Breath out.

He opened his eyes, now glowing fiery gold.

And blew the front door for the Questing Beast off of its hinges.

Merlin strode into the inner darkness of the club to find Timothy Malory waiting for him in the middle of the dance floor, wearing a not-very-nice smirk.

Merlin smiled urbanely in return. "I know what you did, Mr. Malory," he said. "The question is, are you going to come with me quietly?"

Malory's smile widened. And with a _pop_ the colored club lights flickered on, one after another.

To reveal an army of magicians on the balcony all the way around the massive enclosure, some leaning casually on the railing, some standing poised for action, all examining Merlin with evident hatred.

Merlin's eyebrows rose. "I guess I'll take that as a no."

John woke up sprawled on the floor, smelling of smoke and ashes, with a large ginger cat sitting on his chest.

 _Hey there,_ the cat said conversationally.

John blinked. "Hello," he said hesitantly.

The cat leaned in and peered at him suspiciously. _How are you feeling?_

"Umm….fine. I think." He frowned, a confusion of memories starting to return. "Wait…there were spikes. In my shoulders. It hurt…what happened?"

 _Merlin healed you._

"Oh. Right then." He paused. "Where is Merlin?"

 _He and Sherlock were here but ran off again, the idiots. Apparently they solved the murder._

"And they just…left me here? I feel so loved."

 _I know, right?_

John and Kilgarrah gave each other looks of mutual understanding.

It had taken Merlin about half a second to realize he was royally screwed. By then, of course, it was too late.

"DEATH TO THE TRAITOR!" Malory roared.

Merlin ducked and ran, throwing up protective shields against the explosion of spells and the rain of deadly weapons coming from above.

The door he had broken open levitated upward and slammed shut in his face. He turned, raising his hands. "It doesn't have to be this way!" he yelled. "Just stop!"

Five spells took him the chest at once, lifting him off his feet and slamming him back into the steel door so hard he left a Merlin-sized dent in it and heard at least one bone snap like a dry twig.

He raised both hands and sent a stunning spell, taking out a small group on the balcony directly opposite him, but a wild-eyed witch still got him in the side with a flying knife from the other side of the room.

Sherlock had smiled politely when Merlin told him to stay in the cab, but of course he had no intention of doing so. Sorcerer or not, he wasn't going to back down on the Malory case. Of course not. He told the cabbie to stop once they turned the corner at the end of the block, and exited the cab to walk down the back alleys to the Questing Beast.

There were smoking craters all over the interior of the club. Bizarrely enough, sometime during the fight the speaker system had been turned on and was blaring music.

Merlin lay in the middle of the dance floor with blood leaking extensively from his mouth, nose, and side and soaking through his clothes. One leg was bent out at an unnatural angle, and he was clutching the handle of the dagger buried in his side. One eye was swollen almost shut, and his nose was broken.

Malory came over and crouched next to him. "You know, I sent that pesky headache you have," the man said conversationally. "I also left John in your flat hoping you'd try the Lazarus spell and weaken yourself. But now," he continued, "I wonder if I even needed to bother. I'm disappointed, frankly. I expected more from you." Malory idly clicked his fingers, and there was a _snap_ as Merlin's left forearm broke.

Merlin seized in pain, his spine arching. "Please," the warlock whispered. "Please. Stop."

Malory cocked his head. "Begging now, are we? How the mighty have fallen. I'm going to enjoy killing you slowly. Why should I stop?"

Merlin painfully turned his head and looked Malory dead in the eyes with a terrible kind of pity. "Because now I'm going to have to do this," he said, and pulled the dagger from his side glowing red-hot before plunging it into Malory's chest up to the hilt.

Malory fell to his knees, a shocked look on his face. Then blood started welling from his mouth, and he glanced down at the blade in his heart. He looked back up at Merlin, who was supporting himself up on his side with his unbroken arm.

Timothy Malory died to the tune of _You Know My Name_ by Chris Cornell, and his last act in life was coughing up blood all over his killer.

Merlin hauled himself upright. There were two consecutive clicks as his bones knit themselves back together, and he stared at the shocked throng of magicians with his eyes glowing like the fires of hell.

"You can surrender now," he said. A few of the younger sorcerers fled out the back door, but the rest stubbornly stayed.

"Well then," he said wearily. "Your funeral."

Sherlock was heading down the alley behind the Questing Beast when thunder crashed like the sky was being split open and his coat whipped wildly in the sudden rush of cold wind.

And then the sky started to change. The day had been mild and slightly overcast, but now the sky was filling with roiling dark clouds that funneled down directly over the Questing Beast. Lightening cracked, making bright light that for a moment turned the world black and white.

Several terrified-looking teenagers dashed past Sherlock, glancing behind them. He stared after them for a moment, and then started running towards the club, until he was blown off his feet by an explosion that rocked the entire block.

He picked himself up and continued staggering towards the Questing Beast.

There was dead silence as he carefully picked his way through the rubble of the club's back door. The main interior was dark, except for the pale daylight leaking through holes in the wall and roof.

There were people lying in various twisted positions all around the perimeter of the building, some buried under pieces of the fallen balcony. Sherlock only had to look once to be sure that most, if not all, were dead.

Merlin was standing in the middle of the wrecked dance floor, his head down and his fists clenched.

"Merlin?" Sherlock said cautiously.

Merlin didn't react.

"Merlin? You did all of this?"

Merlin raised his head, and Sherlock was shocked to see tears shining on his bloody face.

"I asked them to stop," Merlin said brokenly. "I tried to only stun the ones I could. They just wouldn't stop…"

Sherlock walked forward slowly. "You did what you had to," he said. "I'll call my brother to deal with this. Should be easy to take care of. I'm sure they'll say it was a freak storm, or something along those lines."

Merlin looked around him. If Sherlock hadn't been able to tell how old the warlock was before, now he could see every single year in Merlin's eyes.

"Riddle me this," Merlin said. "There are two men. Out of idealism, one kills two. The other kills many times that. Who is the better man?"

"That would depend on the idealism. These people would have caused a great deal of harm and probably many deaths if you hadn't stopped them. No one is going to blame you for protecting the nation."

"Any more than I blame myself?"

There was a pause, and then Merlin sighed. "Fine. Call your brother. Label the Malory case closed. Let's go."

They carefully exited the club in silence; Sherlock furtively examining Merlin out of the corner of his eye. The man looked to be retreating into his own mind, going into some dark place full of guilt and pain.

A distraction was needed. Immediately.

"Oh, by the way," Sherlock said once they were halfway down the alley, "Do you happen to know anything about plagues of frogs?"

 _I'm sorry this update was a week in coming! I've been really busy. I hate it when I don't have time to write…Anyway, I'll probably put one more post up after this and wrap up the story. But don't worry; I'm planning on a sequel! (Feedback/constructive criticism on this story is welcome.)_


	10. Part 10

Several Days Later

Merlin and John sat together in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, savoring steaming cups of tea. They drank in silence, John occasionally flicking glances at his companion.

Several days ago, Merlin and Sherlock had staggered through the front door of Merlin's flat, Merlin cut, bruised, and dripping with blood. It was only when John patched the warlock up that he discovered that a lot of the blood wasn't Merlin's own. Sherlock hadn't been able to tell him what had happened at the Questing Beast, but John could draw his own conclusions.

As a soldier, John had killed people. He wasn't proud of it, but he tried not to beat himself up about it too much. After all, it was kill or be killed. It was justified. But even so, John could still see their faces, at one or three in morning when he woke up gasping and drenched in sweat.

And so, being the owner of his own middle-of-the-night demons, he knew the look on Merlin's face. He had seen it on others, and on his own more often than not.

It was the look of someone who had done what he had to, and hated himself for it. For being the person willing to get his hands dirty doing whatever it takes to accomplish a goal. Some things are always hard to justify, no matter how necessary.

So he'd tried not to leave Merlin alone too much to be wracked by memories. He took the warlock out for drinks, and had let Sherlock spend hours interrogating him about magic. John smiled slightly, recalling one of their conversations.

"What is magic?" Sherlock had asked.

"Essentially, it's manipulating reality." Merlin had replied shortly.

"How does it work?"

"What?"

"Where does it come from? How does it operate? There must be a scientific explanation."

"I don't know, I don't know, and if there is one it hasn't been discovered yet."

"You mean you're the world's oldest and most powerful warlock and you don't _know?_ " Sherlock has said incredulously.

"….Never really thought about it, to be honest…"

John shook his head slightly, remembering, and smiled into his teacup.

Meanwhile, Merlin was recalling a conversation of his own.

Several days ago, after Sherlock and John had left his apartment, he had sat against his bloodstained wall and in the huge charred circle on the floor, staring blankly into space, Kilgarrah crouched next to him.

 _I'm sorry,_ the cat had said softly.

"Don't be," Merlin replied harshly. "I knew were this would end. Where this always ends."

He stared at the blood on his hands. "I always do what has to be done. I was a fool for thinking it would be any easier this time."

 _But even so, I'm sorry._

"Yeah. Me too."

 _What about John? What will happen to him?_

"I don't know. I'll have to keep an eye on him."

 _He's a good man. Whatever comes of the spell, he can deal with it._

"Let's hope so."

And that, Merlin told himself, was why he was drinking tea with John in Baker Street. Surveillance. Not because he needed company or anything.

John spoke. "So what were the frogs?"

"Hmm? Oh. A simple infestation spell. Someone at the Questing Beast must have tagged you with it when you and Sherlock broke in. It wasn't hard to break."

"Almost a pity. I think Sherlock was growing rather attached to the things."

Merlin smirked slightly. "He's been busy enough, trying to get magic to work for him."

"No luck yet?"

"Nope. I keep telling him he's going about it the wrong way, but he won't listen. He's dead set on one of his own ideas."

"Yeah, he gets like that."

They sat in silence for a few moments, John mentally debating.

 _Just tell him you know what he's going through!_

 _But do I really? He's so old. I'm sure he's had to kill a lot of people._

 _But he looks pretty torn up about what happened. Come on…_

John took a breath, ready to speak-

And of course, it was in that moment that an explosion rocked Baker Street, originating from the apartment upstairs.

Merlin and John stared at each other in shock. Then Sherlock's voice came echoing down the stairs.

"Merlin? Merlin! I told you I was correct! I've accomplished something extraordinary!"

Merlin looked narrowly at John. "Does his voice sound different to you?"

John gulped. "Yes. Different."

As one, they turned and raced up the stairs, Merlin with one heartfelt thought.

 _Mycroft is going to_ _ **kill**_ _me._

Then he stopped dead in front of the flat's door.

 _Oh my god, we're all doomed._

Visible through the door, one massive golden eye turned to examine him.

"Ah, Merlin. I appear to have transformed myself into a dragon. Isn't it fascinating?"

The End

 _Smauglock! 'Cause you know I had to go there. Anyway, sorry it's been a while and all that. This story is at an end, but I intend to write a sequel about Sherlock's magical shenanigans and the aftereffects of the Lazarus spell on John, (not to mention poor Merlin has some new trauma to work through!) I don't know when I'll be able to start, as school sadly waits for no man (or woman.) But I'll try to start posting soon. In the meantime, if you have ideas for the sequel, feel free to let me know._

 _Thank you to everyone for reading!_


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